


Living Arrangements

by Ghelik



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9423929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: Christine has been living in an unused storage-room for a few months now. Things have got to change.Erik does not know how to deal with change.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Little Meg"'s comic has inspired a very nice headcannon for me and Erik and Meg's relationship for this.  
> I took 1990's phantom, because he's closer to Christine's age than the original and I love the dynamic in that series. :D

“Why, you little pest!”

  
The voice shock Christine out of her thoughts, slamming her quite forcibly back into a reality where she was trying to mend the hem on her old pin-stripped skirt. It was her favorite and she was loath to admit that, after crossing half of Europe, it might be in need of replacement. But it was nearly new, just four or five years old. 

 

There was a high pitched squeal and suddenly one of the wooden panels in her room slid to the side and out came a very disgruntled looking thirteen-year-old Megan Giry, a tall, skeleton-like black-clad figure forcefully dragging her by her arm.

 

Christine blinked at the scene unbeknownst to the tall figure, who was lecturing the young ballerina about being lady-like and running around dark spooky tunnels, and how she was going to get hurt one of these days and then everyone would hunt him down and did she really want that to happen?

  
Megan Giry’s lips were pressed tightly together to form a white angry line. And then her clear blue eyes fell on Christine and she went completely pale, stiff as a board. The figure turned to her, straightening slightly, his shoulders falling back and seeming to grow a little bit taller. Not that he needed it, he was nearly a giant as it was.

  
“Mademoiselle Daae”, he said, his deep baritone voice sending chills down her spine. “I am sorry for intruding so rudely.” And he did a perfect little bow that had warmth running up her cheeks. He turned toward the young girl, giving her arm a small tug to get her attention. “Now, mademoiselle Giry. You wouldn’t want me to tell your mother about your little excursions, now, would you?”

  
“No, monsieur Phantome”, she whispered properly chastised to the tips of her dirty shoes. At least she’d had the sense to change out of her ballet slippers before venturing into the dark tunnels. It wasn’t the case of her white ballerina skirt, which was thoroughly ruined.

The man nodded and let go of her. “Run along now. And not a word.”

“No, monsieur Phantome.”

He didn’t say “and don’t go back into the tunnels” before the young girl ran out of the room. Christine thought he might have decided it was a lost cause anyway. She was smiling when he turned back towards her. “I am terribly sorry to have intruded like that, Mademoiselle Daae.”

“It’s quite alright, Erik.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up and disappeared beneath his mask. In the deep sockets of the mask his eyes shon a cat-like yellow-green. As always he was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and a heavy wool cloak. Which, considering it was early July seemed a little excessive. But then again, the dark corridors where he lurked were pretty drafty. Or so she had been told.

Christine Daae was pretty new in the Opera House, having arrived just a few months prior, penniless, carrying only a little satchel with a change of clothes and a letter of recommendation for the director of the Opera, Monsieur Carrière. Only to discover the man had been retired. She had been lucky that the new manager’s wife, renowned singer Carlotta Altteri had taken her in as a protégé – which was a nice way of saying handmaiden at the Opera. Still, she got a few schillings a week and was allowed to go wherever she wished in the opera.

Technically speaking she wasn’t allowed to stay in the Opera during the nights, but, seeing as she was completely penniless and couldn’t pay for her accommodations in the city Carlotta had allowed her to stay in one of the many storage rooms of the theatre.

The figure turned towards the door, like he was listening, and seemed to relax.

Christine had known him for nearly as long as she’d been here. He had appeared out of thin air one day: clad in nice clothes and a mysterious mask, claiming she had the voice of an angel.

Of course she had thought that he wanted to take advantage of her, at first. But months had passed and they seemed to have formed a friendship of sorts. It still felt odd hearing the stage-hands and young impressionable ballerinas calling him a ghost. Christine had been sworn to secrecy. It was exciting. Knowing something the rest didn’t. And Erik was quite the gentleman, if somewhat overly dramatic- but what else could she expect from an Opera Ghost?

He sat on a pile of upturned crates.

“Since I am already here…” and he then seemed to notice the skirt and needle in her hands. Once his piercing eyes fell on the wool she herself couldn’t help noticing. And give thanks to all the angels above that she had not decided to just do her mending in her underwear and was actually dressed. “Oh! I am intruding!” in his haste to reach the sliding door he nearly tripped over a small table.

“It’s alright, Erik, I…”She cleared her throat. “I would like to spend some time with you before…” Christine fidgeted with the needle and promptly stabbed herself in the finger. She did not curse… Much. At least it was in Swedish, which always made him look fondly at her.

Erik was a talented man, but he didn’t know any Swedish – yet, apparently he was a scholar intent on learning everything- which meant he loved hearing her talk in something he didn’t quite understand.

Christine straightened. Her father had taught her to take what she wanted.

“I will be moving out soon. I’d like to spend more time with you before that.”

Erik went still as a statue. “You’re leaving?”

“I found a new lodging. I can’t keep living on Madame Carlotta’s charity. It’s not right.”

“It’s not charity. You work for your place in the Opera. You have a right to stay.”

She sighted. “It’s not like I won’t be around anymore. I’ll just leave for the evenings.”

Even with the mask covering everything but his chin, he looked so distraught it broke her heart. She wanted to take it all back. But it was true: she couldn’t stay here and live as a beggar. She wanted to sustain herself, have her own rooms, breathe air outside of this temple full of trapdoors and props. “But…”

  
“We’ll still meet for lessons. And maybe we could meet outside of the Opera?”

He started like she had slapped him and Christine knew she had said something wrong before his jaw went hard and his lips thin. “I hadn’t realized you liked it so little here, Mademoiselle Daae.”

“Don’t be like that, Erik. You know I love the Opera.”

“But you’d rather live elsewhere. This is just one theater for you, isn’t it?”

“Well… The world is very big…”  
She shouldn’t have said that either, but it was true. The Opera Populaire was a magnificent theatre, if you triumphed here you had the world at your feet. But it was really just one of the many opera houses around the world. She wanted to see them all.

  
“As are your dreams, aren’t they, country-mouse.”

Christine swallowed, taking a step back. She knew this Erik, too. He was the one the stage-hands, the managers and the ballet girls saw: the angry vindictive phantom out to terrorize them. Nasty and vicious like a viper. She had never encountered, had never been able to reconcile the monstrous folks-tale with the gentle friend she had found in Erik. “But are you good enough for that? Or maybe you’re just biding your time until you can replace la Carlotta’s screeching and capture the eye of a rich patron to whisk you out of here.” He seemed to flow like water, crowding her against a prop-wall, his voice was everywhere. It seemed to come off the walls, resonate against her bones, somewhere next to her tiny sewing table, behind the towers of boxes. Until that moment she had never been scared of the phantom. Erik was not dangerous.

In that moment, looking into the yellowish gleam of his eyes, she wasn’t so sure.

She wanted to flee. Or, at least part of her wanted to. Another part of her was shaking with rage. She slapped him across the face, quite hard. So hard his mask fell to the ground and she caught a glimpse of the marred skin beneath.

Erik covered it quickly enough with his gloved hand, stepping quickly away, turning his back to her. She was standing between him and the fake wall he had come through. There was only a way out for him and that was the front door.

Christine looked at the mask on the floor. Then at his trembling shoulders. Back at the mask. The band that he used to secure it around his head had torn. Probably had been torn before he came and the jerk of his head had dislodged the whole thing.

Christine sighed again. Picked it up and sat down.

They where quiet while she worked the tiny stitches into the sturdy leather. When she tapped his shoulder and offered the mask, his warm gloved hand gently brushing her fingers.

“Don’t talk to me like that, ever again.”

He nodded, taking the mask from her. “I am sorry, Christine. I…”

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

He snorted slightly, still facing the wall. “Probably deserved that. I’m not… I don’t have friends. Just you and…” he made a gesture with the head towards the door “little mademoiselle Giry. I don’t…” she could her him swallow.

“It must be very lonely.”

He shrugged. “I have the opera. Making sure those idiots don’t drive her to the ground.”

“Erik, I will not stop being your friend if I move away.”

“But you will. You are a being of light, Christine. You deserve better than anything I can offer you.”

“Shouldn’t it be me the one who decides that?”

He made a noncommittal sound and she rubbed her face, exasperated. It was like talking to a small child, really. “Erik, look at me.”

He put the mask on before turning towards her, his head hanging low and shoulders slumping. He looked defeated. It was not a good look on him. “I know what it’s like to be alone in the world. But you’re not. I am here for you. And I will not leave you alone.” She took his thin, bony hand in hers, the leather very soft against her work-rough fingers. “I promise that to you.”

The left corner of his mouth tugged slightly up, disappearing beneath his mask. He nodded once and then his eyes twinkled with the mischief she started to associate with late-night escapades to mess with props and music-sheets. “You really hurt my cheek.”

He didn’t look like a small child. More like a sly teen. Christine smiled back at him. “I think I know exactly what you need to make it better.” She rose to her tiptoes to kiss his masked cheek. And then, just to see his startled look she kissed his uncovered jaw.

**Author's Note:**

> This was unbeta'd. Thanks for reading


End file.
